


Angaria

by CaveFelem



Category: Formula 1 RPF, Rush (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Forbidden Love, Kink Meme, M/M, Non-Sexual Slavery, Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 12:03:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1647989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaveFelem/pseuds/CaveFelem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>(Late Latin: a troublesome or vexatious service exacted by a lord of his tenant)</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Written for the Rush Kink Meme, for the prompt "What if F1 drivers were modern day gladiators in more ways than one - they really were owned? And having fallen on hard times Alexander had to sell James off..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angaria

**Author's Note:**

> This is obviously an alternate universe. It's also not a nice fluffy AU (modern slavery - enough said). It should be noted that the slavery in this universe is not exactly the kinky collar and leash sort - sorry if that's what you were expecting! ;) Readers who are massively squicked by the idea of systemic inequality in fiction should skip this one.
> 
> This is fiction, nothing to do with the real world, the real sport, or actual real people.
> 
> Many thanks to those who read and/or commented on the first chapters, and extra thanks to Czeri for support, beta and unfailing enthusiasm.

1.

"Do you know why I've called you here?"

The sight of Lord Hesketh seated solemnly behind a pile of paperwork, with no company, champagne or smile in sight, had surprised James, and the simple question made the situation all the more confusing. His presence was not usually requested urgently for anything that looked like this. He shook his head.

"No."

Someone less laid back would have frowned at James for the monosyllabic answer and the failure to use an honorific, but Le Patron and his driver had always had an understanding. James was allowed certain social liberties; he knew his superior enjoyed the carefree image it produced, and used that allowance to the limit. As usual, he seated himself on the nearest armchair without waiting to be asked.

"I have done so," the Lord announced when James did not elaborate, "because I must regretfully inform you that the team operations have become too much of a financial burden. Costs must be cut back severely. Unfortunately, much as it pains me," his expression did look genuinely regretful for a moment before it turned blank and matter-of-fact again, "this means I can no longer afford you."

The news took a long, silent moment to sink in. When they did, they did so like a cold, heavy stone in James's stomach.

"But how," he started frantically, "aren't there sponsors, didn't I just start winning for you, how can this happen -"

"It's only natural for you to be worried. You are quite marketable, however. I will put the word out that your contract is coming up for sale. You will be back in the race soon enough, you'll see."

James felt pain in his hands. He looked down to find his nails had pressed deep, red crescents into his palms without him even realising it. He felt like he might be sick at any moment.

"I have to be," he said. "It's not like I have a choice."

*

The turning point in James's life had been when he signed his top level contract. At the moment he put his name on the dotted line, he ceased to be a free man in more ways than not. 

Of course, he still retained such fundamental rights as citizenship, the right to vote if he was so inclined, and the right to pray, or not, to the god of his choosing. It was not an entirely barbaric sport. Still, like every contracted driver, he knew he could be sold, traded, replaced, promoted, relegated; his personal life, diet, fitness, manner of speaking or dressing could be controlled to the smallest detail if his owners so wished, and there was little he could do about it. Every driver had chosen, once, to hand over his freedom for the chance to drive the best and the fastest cars in existence. After that, there were few choices left.

James had always counted himself lucky. The offer from the Hesketh team had come at the point in his life where he'd been floundering, knowing with a slightly sickening certainty that he wouldn't ever be fulfilled in the respectable professions his family wanted for him. He'd been messing about in the lower formulae, the ones for the non-contracted and ultimately non-serious, long enough to have an idea of what he was capable of. If only he signed. If only he gave up everything, absolutely everything else.

When the offer had come, he'd said yes.

Being what essentially amounted to a nobleman's expensive plaything was not all bad, he told himself and anyone who asked. When he wasn't strapped in the car, he was busy being whisked from one party to another, fawned over by scores of high society men and women, entertaining a hand-picked few in private as instructed. Fine champagne and pure illegal substances were his for the taking if he wanted them. He often did. They were good for not thinking too much.

Still none of them were as addictive as the rush of driving itself. He always threw up violently before a race, his hands shook so much he could hardly hold a cigarette, but once the flag went down and the cars shot forward like brightly coloured bullets, nothing else mattered. His life narrowed down to the next curve, the next straight, the next overtaking. And always ahead of him, shining temptingly forth from the horizon, the promise of victory. A championship.

That, of course, was the lure dangled in front of all of them, the thing that kept new young men coming in, the one shiny chance that made it all look more poetic than it had any right to be. A champion was instantly rocketed to stardom, of course, but that wasn't all. The done thing was for the team to lavish rewards on their winning driver; an entire house, perhaps, discreetly supervised to maintain an illusion of independence. A permanent partner of appropriate gender and tastes could be arranged. And then there would be songs composed, books written, countless pictures taken. Being a household name. Being a hero.

Failing that, there would be trying again and again, until age or injury or death made an end of trying. If a champion lived to retirement, he was, of course, formally released from all obligations and given a sum of money which, well invested, could keep him comfortable for the rest of his life. For a rank and file driver, however, one who had never won the greatest prize, there was no happy end, no release. Some teams found a placement for their used-up drivers. Other drivers faded away from public sight, never to be heard of again. Still others, knowing they were running their last races and all chances of victory were beyond reach, became... careless. Always so tragic when that happened.

No, James did not have a choice. He had to get back in the race. Fading away, having gambled everything for nothing, was not an option he would accept.

*

"...there might be interest from a certain team," the Lord was saying. How long had he been talking? Half a minute, half an hour? "In fact, I will make a phone call right now. If you don't mind...?" 

The unsubtle nod towards the door made it more an order than a request. James rose from the chair. His legs felt numb and his stomach like it was rebelling against an overdose of foie gras. Yes, he'd be lucky if he got as far as the nearest bathroom before his breakfast came back up.

"Which team?" he managed to ask while backing away.

"Don't get your hopes up, though." The Lord was already dialling a number. "They already have a number one driver. A real piece of work. Niki Lauda."

\- - - - - -  
\- - - - - -

2.

The first thing Niki noticed as he arrived at the paddock was that something was ever so slightly different. He made a direct line to the car and began to inspect it methodically, irritation growing every second as he saw changes had been made without informing him.

"No. No, no. This is not good. What have you done to the rear wing? Explain to me exactly what has been changed since the last testing."

By now, the Ferrari mechanics were used to this kind of thing. They knew better than to scowl, refuse, or scribble complaints to higher-ups. Part of it was the privilege of a proven winner and a champion, naturally, but they also knew - as did Niki himself, without a shred of vanity, only sharp, pure honesty - that he was something of a genius when it came to the inner and outer workings of the car. To be of any use to the team, though, he needed to be informed. He needed to have some control.

If that made him bossy well above his station, if it made him notorious, then so be it. Of all contracted men in the sport, he could afford to be. 

The mechanics exchanged a look and a nod, and then the senior mechanic motioned Niki closer and launched into a detailed explanation of what they were hoping to achieve by lowering this, widening that and tweaking the other. Niki listened patiently for a couple of minutes, but that was enough to know the change was not for the better.

"It will be slower," he stated.

"You don't know that," the mechanic said defensively.

"Bring it out. I will drive and you will see."

"Outrageous," someone muttered behind Niki's back. He did not care. As long as everything worked as it should, they could talk all they wanted.

*

The mechanics might not have talked, but other people, the hangers-on and the journalists, did. One of their favourite things to speculate about was Niki's contract. None but the undersigned knew exactly what was on the paper, but there were plenty of rumours. 

It was clear, from his public behaviour around the mechanics and the team management, that he had a say in matters directly concerned with the car and his use in races; but there were whispers that he had an unusual, perhaps unprecedented, amount of influence behind the scenes as well.  
Those of the old school said it bordered on scandalous. The entire system would fold, they said, if drivers were allowed to run around doing and saying whatever they wanted. Heaven forbid they were allowed to decide more important things: whether to race or not, who to be teamed with, what was advertised with their faces and on their bodies. They were one-trick ponies, born and trained to go very fast in a car. They simply weren't properly equipped for much else.

The gossip mongers usually concluded that either someone powerful at Ferrari was secretly rebelling against the system, or Niki was such valuable property that he got to dictate terms. No one really believed it to be the former. Ferrari, weighty with traditions and legacy, would never have bent written or unwritten rules unless there was something in it for them. With Niki, there evidently was; and so the rules got bent.

In some things, at least.

*

The car was being rolled out, and Niki was zipping up his overalls, when he saw something from the corner of his eye that made him freeze on the spot. That something, or rather someone, should not have been there. Not so much because it wasn't allowed - though strictly speaking, it wasn't forbidden either - but because it had been years, and he did not like the unexpected.

"James," he acknowledged the tall, shaggy-haired man with a small, tense nod. "What are you doing here?"

"Friendly as always, aren't we?" James approached, though slowly and with caution. There were shadows under his eyes and his T-shirt had a big oil stain on the stomach. "We need to talk."

Niki stood still, arms folded across his chest. If James was expecting to be met halfway, he would have to try harder. "This is not a good time."

"Niki?" A mechanic's voice from outside. "Are you ready?"

"Five minutes," he called back. The smile that flickered on James's face at that was brief, but he saw it nevertheless, and hated the way it made his chest ache even after all this time.

What he really should have done was to tell James to fuck off. Everything was different now. They could not simply... spend time (waste time, he wanted to correct himself) together like the young contract-free hotheads they had once been, sharing a flat, messing about. Yes, there were many things they could not, must not do.

It was easier to stick to that from a distance.

"Have you heard," James began in a lowered voice, moving a bit closer still. A flash of alarm must have appeared in Niki's eyes, because James stopped mid-step, and his shoulders stiffened.

"Le Patron's putting my contract up for sale. I'll be out if no one's buying."

"You won't be out," Niki said immediately, almost before James's last word was out. "You are quick. Many teams will want you." 

What he did not say was that he couldn't imagine a team owner, or anyone, not wanting James. Even back when he'd wrecked too many cars and won too few races, even then, somehow, people had wanted him anyway. It would be the same now. Surely.

"There might be a buyer," James said, avoiding Niki's gaze. "It's just-" He paused, cleared his throat, looked utterly distressed for a moment, then lifted his chin and put on a neutral tone, 

"It'd be a shame about Clay."

Outside, the mechanics heard a brief silence break with a long string of German curses.

\- - - - - -  
\- - - - - -

3.

"Il Commendatore will receive you now."

Niki rose from his uncomfortable seat in the hallway and gave a minuscule nod to the man who had called him in. 

He'd been kept waiting for the better part of an hour. Truth be told, he had expected no less. It wasn't a given to be received at all, and even when he was, there would always be a dozen subtle tactics, like the waiting, employed to underline who was in charge. It was like that for everyone, but doubly for him, of course - and even worse for Clay. 

The room was too large for three people. There were ten empty seats left around the long table after Niki had taken the seat shown to him, to the left of Il Commendatore's imposing figure at the end of the table and the interpreter between them.

The owner of the Scuderia had never spoken to Niki directly. Never mind that Niki had picked up enough Italian to hold the necessary conversations with the mechanics; never mind that he could get the gist of other people's discussions and could read a newspaper well enough. Il Commendatore spoke to the interpreter in Italian, the interpreter spoke to Niki in German, and that was the way of it.

"It has been brought to our attention," the interpreter began at a hand sign from the big chair, "that you have some concerns about the future of our illustrious team. Specifically, that there is a driver you think would be detrimental to the team's continuing success. Il Commendatore has generously agreed to hear your opinion on this matter."

This was it. Niki's chance, probably the only one, to convince them of what he himself knew to be a lie. 

"I am very grateful for this opportunity," he began formally. There was no emotion to be seen on Il Commendatore's face. His eyes were hidden behind his usual dark glasses. Another tactic, that one.

"I have heard from reliable sources that James Hunt's contract is coming up for sale. I must ask you to leave him out of your considerations. I have known what he's like for a long time. He is sloppy, reckless, he will wreck the cars and retire more often than finish. He will be good for passing around at parties but not for anything else. He is not champion material. For the good of the team to which I owe everything, I ask of you, do not buy James Hunt."

It had just enough truth to it to hold it together, but the whole of it left the oily aftertaste of lying in Niki's mouth. 

Still, anything was preferable to James becoming his teammate. Being in close proximity, having to work together and compete against each other, either of them would eventually slip. Knowing James, it would be sooner rather than later. They would end up the way they had been - it seemed lifetimes ago - in an uneasy tangle of love and hate, a constant dance of tension and relief. They would end up getting caught at the back of the garage with their hands in each other's pants, or even just looking at each other for too long, and that would be the end of them both.

This way, he told himself, possibly only James would be floundering and ruined, and that only in the worst of cases. The other way, him and James both belonging to Ferrari, would ruin them both for sure. 

Clay, too, would be discarded the moment James was acquired, but Niki was honest enough with himself to admit it was a secondary concern. Ever since James had showed up at the paddock with his alarming news, everything else had been a secondary concern.

He hated that James had the power to do this to him, hated that the man could just show up and complicate all the things that should have been straightforward and clear. Life should have been about racing and only about the racing. They had fought about it even back then, James always unable to understand that it was Niki's preferred way of coping. James drank and fucked to get by; Niki narrowed his focus until nothing hurtful or disturbing remained in his sight. Too much of James in his field of vision might shake him apart. 

Il Commendatore said a few words to the interpreter. Niki understood them even before hearing the German version.

"Is that all?"

 _"Sì, Signore."_ Bypassing the interpreter, he looked directly across the table into the obscured eyes. The interpreter cleared his throat, evidently uncomfortable.

A rapid stream of Italian followed. This time, Niki was only able to catch a word here and there, and to his displeasure, had to wait for the translation.

When it came, he had a strong suspicion it was a diluted version of the actual words.

"Il Commendatore wants you to know he has listened to your concerns, but you are also strongly encouraged to keep in mind that the team is under no obligation to act based on rumours overheard by a driver -"

"Did you not hear anything I said? I know James. I know the team will be ruined if you buy him." That, at least, he was able to say with absolute conviction. "This is not a matter of some childish rivalry! I gave up everything to win for this team. I have brought you a championship. You know this."

More rapid Italian, a torrent of words which made the interpreter blanch. He was quick to collect himself, however, before turning back to Niki.

"You are very strongly... advised... to mind your place. You are a valued asset, but ultimately, like any other driver, expendable. If you are found to be unsatisfactory in your behaviour, or getting involved in matters that are none of your concern, you can be easily replaced, or," he glanced to his left, then at Niki again, "removed."

Niki's hands had clenched on his lap during the admonishment. He gritted his teeth and said nothing. Anything to come out of his mouth at this point would only make the situation worse.

"Is this understood?"

He nodded.

The other two men rose from their seats. The audience was over.

\- - - - - -  
\- - - - - -

4.

"Is this flat bugged?"

That was the first thing out of James's mouth when Niki opened the door to him. Not a greeting, not an explanation for the surprise visit.

"No." It was a reasonable question - it wasn't unheard of, there was certainly nothing to stop teams from setting up a surveillance system in their drivers' quarters - but Niki knew he'd never be suspected of dealing in trade secrets. If anything, he had a reputation for being too tight-lipped. "Why do you ask?"

James shut the door behind him and rested his hands on his hips, glowering at Niki.

It had been a bit over a week since the meeting with the Ferrari owner, and nothing had been said of any driver trades since. The silence in itself spoke volumes. Niki raised his eyebrows. Could it be that James had some new information he didn't? But then why would he be mad?

"Well," James began with an apparent calm, conversational tone that could have fooled most people, "I was thinking it might not be smart to discuss sensitive issues if the higher-ups might hear, but then you have no such qualms, I guess."

Niki felt himself tense up.

"What do you mean?"

"It seems like a remarkable coincidence, your team being all enthusiastic and then suddenly cutting Le Patron out like that" - James made a chopping gesture with his hands - "and this very soon after a certain champion driver made it very clear he wanted me as his teammate like he wanted crabs in his pants. Even more remarkable, this champion driver was said to have had a private audience with Il Commendatore himself. What could they have discussed, hmm?"

"Where did you hear this? Who told you?"

"There's a certain pretty track manager - I don't need to name names, there aren't many of them you could call pretty, are there? Fond of associating with drivers. Knows many important people, too. It was quite pleasant, what she asked me to do in exchange."

"You should not have done that. It's disgraceful."

"Is it now? Yes, disgraceful that anyone except you should have power where there's supposed to be none."

"That's bullshit, James. It's not what I meant."

"I wonder. Wouldn't be the only thing that seems to be reserved only for the great and wonderful Niki. Power, championship, having a future to look forward to, _having a fucking drive_. As long as you have it, everyone else can go to hell for all you care."

He knew that look and that escalating volume from way back. Once James got going with one of his rants, it went on and on and was practically unstoppable. If Niki wanted to get a word in edgewise, he had to stop James right now.

He stepped in front of James and grabbed his arm hard enough to make the other man flinch and pause for a second. There was his opportunity.

"I did it because I care about you."

That stopped James. For about fifteen seconds, at least. Then came another verbal explosion:

"You can't fucking say that when you've done your best to ruin my life! If that's the way you 'care', then what do you do to your enemies, shoot them in the head?"

"I didn't ruin your life, you big ass. Being teammates would have ruined your life. Think."

"About what?"

His fingers were still gripping James's arm, they stood very close, and even angry and hateful, James was affecting him in ways he should not have. There had always been this thing between them, a thing like a wire live with adrenaline, resentment and desire. The very thing that would have been their undoing.

James was feeling it too, Niki could tell from the way his eyes had darkened and the angry line of his mouth had gone softer. He remembered - didn't want to, but remembered nevertheless - how they'd been standing like this during some stupid fight over an unpaid electricity bill, and how James had cut him off mid-sentence with a kiss. That kiss had led to other hasty, sweaty, desperately needy actions, ones that led to carpet burns and stained clothing and purplish bite marks that had to be hidden carefully under turtlenecks. He remembered those better than he remembered who had ended up paying the bill.

"This," Niki said and kissed him.

Cigarettes and frustration, he could nearly taste the latter on James, and then James reciprocated furiously. Tongue and teeth and roving hands, it was the way he remembered, exactly so, urgent and intoxicating and right the way it had never been with anyone else. And where the world was concerned, a hundred times more _wrong._

Niki forced himself to be the first to pull away.

"You see? You felt that too. This would happen, and happen again, and one day we would be caught. Don't tell me it wouldn't. I know you."

(He could see it in his mind now. Behind a garage or in a storage room, _come on, we have enough time, just this once for good luck. Nobody will know._ Until they would.)

"And you know you." 

James didn't sound angry any more. Niki shrugged and looked away, but then nodded.

"Yes. I know me."

"You do have a point." James drew his fingers through his hair and sighed heavily. "It's only that... I need to drive. I need to. I can't stop here and become nothing, not now when I know I can get there."

Niki understood him. Every driver on the grid would have understood him. Some of them would doubtlessly have offered comforting phrases about God and fate, things happening in their own season if they were meant to be. 

Niki wished he too believed in such things, just so there would be something to say.

"Something will turn up." He did believe that, at least. "You _are_ quick."

"Or the car is damn good," James shot back, "and I'm slow. How would they know?"

They were both quiet for a while.

"Look, Niki," James said finally, "I don't know what's going to happen. But we decided together to give up everything to become champions. We gave up the right to choose anything else, and it felt like it was worth it, only now you have what you wanted, and I..." He spread his empty hands. "I don't hate you for what you did, but I won't lie and say I'm happy." 

"Fair enough." It was. Niki didn't think he had any right to expect more.

"So." An awkward pause. "I'll see you around."

"Yes."

He still wanted to say something more, but sometimes there were no words.

\- - - - - -  
\- - - - - -

5.

Meeting with Niki hadn't made anything better. If anything, it had made things worse. Throwing himself willingly into the dark, churning vortex of a self-destructive cycle had never tempted James more. He spent his free time staring at the walls and chain-smoking and his nights knocked out cold with whatever did the trick. He couldn't sleep otherwise. He knew exactly how bad it was and yet couldn't bring himself to care.

There had been no other offers after the Ferrari deal had fallen through. Well, Lotus had called, but that had only served to raise the Lord's ire. "The nerve of them," he'd huffed, "they said they'd take you off my hands for free! I let them know exactly what I thought of that. Their ears should still be smarting."

After that talk, James had vented his frustration by punching the mirror in his bathroom. The pain and the shame came right afterwards and dissipated the anger, but he was still too embarrassed to go get his cut-up knuckles looked at. Instead, he wrapped some gauze around his hand as best he could and dulled the pain with whisky.

He'd asked about further progress couple of times and got headshakes and grim looks in place of answers. Once he'd swung by the room that served as Le Patron's office with the intention of asking, alright, pleading that he'd keep trying to find a buyer - but the door had stayed shut no matter how many times he knocked. Only the faint shuffling on the other side told James he was indeed in there, but not willing to face his driver with bad news. James hadn't tried again after that.

It was the Lord who came to him eventually, opening the door almost simultaneously with a brisk knock that was meant more to alert him than to request permission to enter. James stared at him blearily through cigarette smoke. He hadn't bothered to shower or put on anything even resembling appropriate, and it was not hard to read from the Lord's expression that he was not exactly pleased with his driver's neglected appearance and wellbeing.

"I got a phone call," he said, getting directly into business with uncharacteristic urgency. "McLaren have done something - I couldn't believe what I was hearing - they have released a driver from his contract, let his brother pay it off. I say it's madness, but their madness could well be my fortune, so..."

"Who?" At the mention of "McLaren" and "released", James's mind had already started processing the information at a brisk pace. "It's Emmo, isn't it?"

" _Senhor Fittipaldi_ from now on, and you'd best remember that. The word is he's going to get into his brother's Copersugar-Fittipaldi team business. You do understand that is quite a leap in status."

Yes, he understood it alright. No more nicknames, no more calling him Mr Magnificent Sideburns. Hell, he'd be lucky to even see the guy from up close ever again. He had a sudden urge to hum the opening bars of _O Fortuna_ , but refrained. Le Patron was likely to be cultured enough to know the work - and not only from the Old Spice commercial - and was also likely to be unamused by the allusion.

The Lord cleared his throat. "Ahem. Yes. Rest assured that I am doing my absolute best to get an audience with McLaren. Be prepared to go at a moment's notice. They'll want to take a good look at you and ask a few nosy questions. Be on your best behaviour - I'm sure I don't need to tell you how important this is. And for God's sake, get cleaned up. I like you casual, but that T-shirt has simply got to go. What _is_ that stain, gravy?"

"Mmhm." James nodded, though he was barely registering the sermon, the starburst of renewed hope inside him calling him to action. "I was bored of it, anyway."

"Naturally, none of this is yet known to the general public. It needs to stay that way until deals have been clinched and papers signed. If I move in fast, and with any luck, we'll have a deal by this time next week... James? Are you even listening?"

James supposed he hadn't, not with enough attentiveness for Le Patron's liking. There was energy coursing through him now, though, at long last, and it was going to waste sitting cooped up in here. He needed to think of what to say, how to play his cards, if - when! - he got that audience. He needed to plan a strategy, do _something_. If he was going to get more lecturing, that would be even more time wasted.

The Lord's frowny expression softened as he looked at the fidgety James.

"I've enjoyed having you on my team," he said and patted James fondly on the shoulder. "If there was any way to keep you, any way at all..."

His voice faltered ever so slightly, and suddenly he wrapped his arms around James, grubby T-shirt and all, and embraced him so tight that he had to labour to breathe. When the Lord let go, he wouldn't look James in the eye.

"Go shower," he said. "You stink." 

James went.

*

"New car." 

James raised his voice just enough that Niki could hear him over the infernal din of people, motors, and festive music that surrounded them on the grid.

"I noticed."

Indeed, it would have been hard not to. The news of McLaren's acquisition of James had been all over the place for a good while now, with the team milking the attention for all it was worth. James held no illusions: he was well aware that his primary value to the team at the moment was that he looked fetching with the sponsor's cigarette dangling from his fingers. They hadn't even bothered to rebuild the chassis properly for him, had simply sat him in Emmo's hand-me-down car and expected him to perform superbly.

He had. With difficulty, true, but he had.

"Pole position," he grinned smugly at Niki.

"Noticed that too." Laconic as ever, Niki's voice betrayed nothing.

James walked around the car and leaned closer so that only Niki could hear him.

"This is the year," he said. The conviction was heartfelt and real. Soon he would start winning races, he was sure of it, and the team would respect him then.

Niki would, too.

"Just watch me. This year I'll beat you."

A wry smile finally made an appearance on Niki's lips, and he shook his head.

"That remains to be seen."

"Five minutes!" someone called out, and Niki turned to go. James watched his retreating back from the corner of his eye.

"Just watch me," he muttered to himself, and then, once more, it was all about the only thing that mattered.


End file.
